


Drowning in Air

by Oparu



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:03:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oparu/pseuds/Oparu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>River and the Doctor dry each other off after a visit to Jim the Fish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning in Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lylo369](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lylo369/gifts).



> for Lydia's birthday. Prompt nicked from the guns and curls ficathon.

Only for him would she hack up her lungs. To be fair, no one else in her like would ask, but she likes to think that's a good thing.

River doesn't mind water, she lands in it often enough and it's useful when she's falling from a rooftop. To help Jim the Fish, they had to go underwater, for a long period of time. Going in was like drowning. The Doctor just happened to have a couple hydrous lung converters, and yes, they're exceptional technology. They're also ancient and designed by sadists.

The first breath of seawater was like drowning. Every instinct told her she was dying. Her chest burned, everything screamed but she couldn't because she was breathing water. She clung to him for a very long time. Longer than she needed, because yes, she can swim.

She's not very good at drowning. He took to it better than she does, maybe it's the extra heart. She'd hate him except that it's very comforting to have him hold her.

When the ocean is saved and Jim sends them off with a wave of his fin and a big, toothy smile, she dreads the TARDIS and the air inside.

"It's going to hurt, isn't it?" She speaks and the hydrous lung converter strapped to her neck makes her voice into sound. Something like whalesong, but they don't hear it that way.

"It's not going to hurt at all. This is the easy direction, much much less terrible than going in." The Doctor smiles at her, pulling her down towards the open door to the TARDIS, the air bubble and her native element.

He's lying. She'd lie, were she him. River takes a last look at the slowly shifting beauty of Jim's world then looks back at her Doctor.

"Kiss for luck?"

She expects him to aim for her cheek and is fully prepared to redirect him. When he doesn't, she smiles and sinks into the warmth of his mouth. Everything's wet, but he's familiar. He's the best kind of wet.

He drags them down. She hates him as soon as the deck rises up to meet her. They hit hard, him on his side and her on her back.

She lies there, stunned and staring up at the light. She's still wearing the round little goggles that let her see underwater and the ceiling of the TARDIS is a kaleidoscope of fractured light.

He tugs her onto her side, then up on all fours, urgent in his movements. Her suit clings to her body, her hair's momentarily flat to her hair, and her lungs want to crawl out of her throat. It's worse than vomiting. It's worse than Jardarmerian choking gas. Her diaphragm heaves, turning her respiratory system inside out to clear the water. Worst of all, she can't even scream, her entire body is too busy racking itself.

He recovers faster, he has done this before. He rubs her back, fingers sliding in the water.

"Relax." His voice creaks, and his still coughing, but he can speak so he's far ahead of her.

The water on her face obscures her tears, and the vicious cycle of the gasp-choke slows and eventually there's more gasping, less choking and she realises her head is in his lap. He's wearing a tight wetsuit in a brilliant shade of blue. He parted reluctantly with the bow tie but agreed it wouldn't be cool wet.

Hers is the same, skintight and blue. She rests her head against his thigh, slowly becoming human again.

He strokes her hair, her neck, her arms: he really can't hold still, but she adores every fidgeting caress.

"Come on, Song, we need clothes and some dinner. Would be wrong to eat fish, of course, given our new friend, but I think the TARDIS and I can come up with some nice dry potatoes and roast lamb. Don't know what it is about swimming that gives me a craving for lamb, but there it is. You'll love it. Mint sauce, curry sauce, chili sauce, name the sauce and we can see you have it."

Lifting her head is a herculean effort. He helps her, guiding her up.

"Slow breaths, nice and deep, make sure your lungs are all dried out. Can't have any stray seawater, that ends badly. Few more breaths and I'll get you a cup of tea."

He starts to stand, she pulls him down.

"It's drowning both ways, isn't it?"

The Doctor smooths her hair, still touching her with cool, shy fingers. "But think of what you got to see by drowning. Jim the Fish! Maggie the Squid! We defeated evil eight-pointed starfish and saved the ocean from octagonal peril. It's worth a little drowning, isn't it?"

His lips and on the bluer side of pink. She pats his face. Her aching chest begins to settle. It'll still hurt tomorrow, but she can breathe.

"I hate you."

"No you don't. I'm the charming madman in the bright blue box."

"Right now you're the wet madman in a bright blue wetsuit."

"Not such a bad thing, wetsuits. Very bendy, everything sticks with you like a sticky thing. Kind of wet. Bit soggy. Actually, they're quite rubbish out of the water, aren't they? We need robes and towels and kettles of tea." He jumps to his feet, annoyingly chipper.

He reaches for her hands and pulls her up. He holds her there, steadying her on her feet. Kissing her cheek, playfully, lightly, he pulls away. "Come on, the robes will be warm."

She follows, somewhat surprised her lungs are still working. She's a little lightheaded, but the TARDIS obliges and puts the wardrobe in the first door on the left. He turns her around, easing down the zip and sliding the wetsuit free of her damp skin. She's not wearing anything beneath it, and that seems to have slipped his mind entirely until he turns her around and realises that he's pulling clinging wetsuit from her naked breasts. She'd cover them, but she's too tired to care.

Out of the water, her body is a heavy, awkward thing with too many limbs and far too many aches. He slides her wetsuit down, stopping just over her hips.

The Doctor looks at her, flicking his eyes up for permission before he strips her. "You'll feel better. We'll have some tea, get dried off, have some dinner."

"I'd settle for a nap."

"Can't get into bed all wet." His expression turns stern, protecting his TARDIS's furniture. "Here."

The huge towel is a bizarre pinstripe of blue and gold but it's incredibly soft as he lowers it on her head. He rubs her face dry, then ruffles her unruly curls. They'll be a mess, but she doesn't mind. He wraps the towel around her shoulders and eases her wetsuit down to her ankles.

Kissing her left knee, he grins. "Such lovely things, knees. All bendy and rounded, like a good corner." He even cheekily licks a stray drop of water from her inner thigh before he stands, turning in front of her so she can strip him.

He's thin beneath his suit, but muscled in the right places and she loves having the excuse to run her hands over his skin. She's starting to warm up, and moving her body doesn't seem to be quite as horrible as it once was. Maybe they should just tumbled into bed naked together and warm each other up that way.

She kisses her way around his hip, avoiding the not-so-soft penis with her mouth, but gently rubbing it with another brightly striped towel.

"I'm still cold."

"I'm not." He grins at her. "Oh, oh, I see what you've done, naughty, very naughty."

"You like naughty."

"I adore naughty. Naughty is bright and cheery and irreverent, like a fez."

"I am nothing like a fez."

"Yes, yes you are." He rests warm hands on her lower back, pulling her close. "You're cool."

There's no bed, but there are dressers and wardrobes and mounds of towels. The energy she didn't have, the bone-searing exhaustion she was fighting, doesn't matter when he kisses her. He's always been the most spectacular kisser, because he kisses her like he knows her, inside out. Their first kiss knocked her out of orbit and she's never come back.

Damp skin dries and then dampens itself with sweat. He licks, then sucks a nipple until she moans. It feels good to moan, now that the coughing is done. It feels even better to want to moan, to be full of that desperate, tightening heat that demands attention.

She shuts the wardrobe door, he leans her against it and his half-soft penis has lost all delusions of being anything but hard and hers. She's wet again, or still wet, but now she's hot and slick instead of soggy. She balances her foot on a drawer, grabs his shoulders with one hand and guides him in with the other. This burst of energy is short, and she wants it used and well spent before exhaustion rushes back. Penetration is that glorious shock of being full, being joined and wanted, needed and taken. He kisses her hungrily, reminding her how nice it is to have air in her lungs to sigh and gasp.

Rocking into him while he presses her hard against the door does wonders for her. She forgets how strong he is as he holds her, claiming her as he thrusts up and in. He shifts his hips and she tilts in, the change in angle rubs her clit against him and she does actually have the lungs for this after all. It's too quick to build to screaming, but a few very throaty moans set him off and he finishes in a joyful spasm. She's a little tingly and shaky again but this is all the good kind. He runs a teasing finger across her clit and she squirms, gasping. He circles and rubs, pressing his chest against hers until she's leaning against his shoulder, panting with fingers dug into his back.

She's breathless, again, but as far on the other end of the spectrum for it to be wondrous instead of hideous. He kisses her gently, lingering on her mouth.

"Air is fun, isn't it?"

River has to catch her breath to laugh. "Yes, my love, air is fun."

Still nude, towels mostly forgotten, they tumble into bed with a kettle nearby and plates of biscuits. There will be crumbs, and they'll have to wash the sheets, but lying against him naked, licking jam from his fingers is a glorious kind of warmth.

He rustles and tugs the duvet with his other hand until it's right where he wants it. She brings his arm to her chest and he fidgets absently with her breast.

"Tomorrow you'll forget all about drowning and undrowning."

"How do you know I haven't forgotten already?" She twists in his arms, wanting to see his face.

"Because I would like to keep making you forget just after breakfast, and maybe again before lunch." He's pleased as punch.

She cups his cheek. "I do love a plan."

"This is an excellent plan, one of my best."

She dreams of purple seaweed, drifting in the tide. He's true to his word. The execution of his plan, once in bed, once in the kitchen instead of washing up, is excellent.

When he asks her later, to drop by Jim's, she agrees in a heartbeat. She always does.


End file.
